


dreams so real

by iangaellagher



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7715992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iangaellagher/pseuds/iangaellagher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hot as balls the day Ian graduates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dreams so real

**Author's Note:**

> title from a song of the same name by metric
> 
> i found this in my writing folder and needed to dump it somewhere bc i don't usually finish pieces and thus have to catalogue this victory
> 
> i did write this so long ago that these characters are probably unrecognizable now....you have been warned
> 
> hope whoever's left in the shameless fandom enjoys!

Mickey's sprawled out on his couch, drinking a beer and watching WWE—which is so fucking fake, come on, they should all have broken ribs by now—when someone knocks on the door. He looks away from the TV and thinks it's kind of a far walk, and he's pretty comfortable where he is, and if Mandy forgot her key then that's her fucking fault and bitch should learn her lesson.

Then there's another knock, and another, and it gets so fucking annoying that Mickey realizes he actually has to do something if he wants that shit to stop.

"What the fuck?" he spits out as he throws open the door, ready to yell at whatever fuckhead is standing on his porch.

Except that fuckhead is Ian, and Ian kinda looks like he's about to cry.

They stare at each other for a long moment. "Hey," Ian finally says, his voice cracking.

Mickey doesn't say anything back. Doesn't really know what to say. He plays with the doorknob he's still clutching and waits for Ian to start talking. Mickey doesn't know how to do this comforting shit or even what the general protocol is, and considering Ian's on the brink of tears as it is, Mickey doesn't wanna be the one who actually makes him start crying.

Ian fidgets with the hem of his T-shirt. "I didn't get into West Point."

Which—fuck. Fuck.

Mickey opens the door wider and nods for Ian to come inside.

-

"—and I can't even tell them, you know. It's like I let them down. Lip tutored me all the time and Carl helped me train and Fiona and Debs were always supportive. Except it was all for nothing."

Ian passes the joint back to Mickey without even taking a hit.

"Think you need this more than I do, man," Mickey says around the lump in his throat.

He doesn’t know why it matters. Ian tells him stuff all the time, in between fucks or during movie marathons or just while they're sharing a beer. But knowing that Ian came to him first with something as big as not getting into his wet dream of a school makes his gut clench. And he can’t deny that maybe it matters a little.

Ian blinks at the wall and then lets out a resounding sigh. He nods and takes the joint back. He doesn't even try to make smoke rings or some other fancy shit that he usually attempts and then gloriously fails at. He just stares at the wall and takes another hit, and then another, and Mickey doesn't tell him that he's hogging the fucking weed. Which is stupid because he is, and Mickey had to stand on a corner selling Oxy for like three hours before he could make enough money to buy the good shit.

Ian kinda sniffles and rubs his eyes and Mickey decides to shrug it off. The kid could keep the joint—he could always sell more Oxy.

"Everything's fucked," Ian says, so low Mickey almost doesn't catch it.

He doesn't know what makes him start talking, but Ian looks like he's about to slit his wrists and Mickey feels like he has to do something. "Nah, man. West Point's the one who's fucked. You don't need 'em anyway."

"Yeah, I fucking do."

"No, Gallagher, you fucking don't." He rubs the back of his suddenly hot neck. "It's not like you can't ever join the army. For fuck's sake, the recruiting office is like ten minutes away."

Ian lets out a pathetic sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He shakes his head. "You don't get it."

The thing is, Mickey does. Not personally or whatever because he's always thought going to school so you could get blown up in some random ass desert somewhere is a fucking stupid idea. But Ian studied during the summer, and built those shitty obstacle courses, and had target practice under the El. He lived and breathed ROTC and the army. Mickey's pretty sure he had like a twenty-year-plan set up that just fell through this morning. 

Mickey pretends that he doesn't always listen to Ian, and sometimes he cuts off his bitching with fucking, but he's listened enough to understand that Ian had a huge hard-on for the army. He wanted to get out, and, yeah, Ian deserves better than the South Side.

So maybe he doesn't _get it_ get it, but he gets it in terms of Ian, and it sucks.

Instead of saying any of that, he just leans a little closer, their shoulders brushing. And if their sides stay pressed together even after Mickey's taken his third hit, well, then Mickey's just too stoned to move away.

-

They don't fuck, but Ian does cry later while clutching Mickey's arm, and Mickey just lets him.

-

There's a selfish part inside of Mickey that's relieved. He glances over at Ian as they're watching "Pulp Fiction" for the ten-hundredth time because, "It's a great movie, Mick," but he's pretty sure it's 'cause Ian has a boner for Bruce Willis.

Ian sips his beer and silently mouths along with Samuel L. Jackson's character, and Mickey thinks about him getting shot right between the eyes. They'd probably do the whole ceremony thing, with the soldiers and the flag and his rank on his gravestone. Like it matters after that, you know? Like it fucking matters when you're dead.

He hates himself for it, hates himself like hell, but he looks at Ian for another second and breathes a little easier.

-

It's hot as balls the day Ian graduates. Mickey sits in front of the fan all morning with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, not thinking about Ian walking across the stage in that ugly blue cap and gown, Ian getting his diploma, Ian starting at Malcolm X in two months, Ian fucking doing something with his life.

Mandy dropped out 'cause she failed sophomore year again and didn't wanna repeat it for the second time. Not like it was a surprise or anything. Mickey and his brothers threw her a kegger anyway for holding out the longest.

But even though she wouldn't be walking, she still went with the rest of the Gallaghers because she thinks the sun shines out of Ian's ass. Or maybe she's hoping his family will adopt her. Either way, she went and Mickey tries not to feel shitty about it, then tries to figure out why he's feeling shitty in the first place, then downs the rest of his beer in one go. If he thinks about it too hard he might vomit.

-

There's a knock on the door at around three and Mickey has to practically peel himself off the couch to answer it. All of his brothers have fucked off somewhere so he can't even begin guessing who the hell goes out in three thousand degree weather to go to his fucking house.

He should've figured it out, though. Really.

"Hey, Mick," Ian says, grinning.

He looks so fucking ridiculous Mickey almost laughs. He's wearing a button down and black slacks, and fucking dress shoes, Jesus. Mickey's about to comment because if he's good at anything it's insulting people, but then his eyes start traveling down the length of Ian's body. His dick twitches and he knows it's too late.

He grunts out a response, his throat suddenly dry.

Ian just smiles wider.

"So, uh, why aren't you at your place?" Mickey asks. "Mandy said they were throwin' you a party and shit."

"Yeah," Ian says, face turning red. "I told them I have to do something first."

There's a pun on Mickey's lips—seriously, Ian makes it so fucking easy sometimes—but then Ian's pushing something into his hands. He doesn't even have a second to process it before the kid starts talking at a mile an hour.

"Lip got his first so it's whatever, you know. Not a big deal. But…I got mine on time." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "So I guess it counts, right?"

Mickey blinks down at the paper he's holding. His eyes trace over Ian's name written in fancy bold script, the school name that he'd almost managed to block out from memory, the signature of the principal he was on a first name basis with back when he bothered to show up to class. He stares so hard his eyes lose focus and all he sees are smudges of black and beige.

He wants to ask why the fuck Ian came all the way over in this hot-as-hell weather, ditching a party his family was throwing for him and not even bothering to change out of his dress clothes, just to show Mickey his diploma. Except the question gets stuck in his throat.

Ian rocks back on his heels and Mickey's eyes snap up at the movement.

"Congrats, asshole," he manages to choke out.

And that's all he says, really, but Ian's beaming at him like the fucking sun.

Mickey's dick twitches again, as well as something in his chest, but he doesn't focus on the second thing. "Want a congratulatory fuck?" he offers.

Ian laughs and shoves his shoulder, but his hand stays on Mickey's arm as he follows him inside.

-

They do the best they can when their skin is sticking to each other and the couch and all Mickey has is a fan that blows hot air around.

It starts off rough, with Ian thrusting into him hard and fast and gripping his waist so tightly it'll leave bruises, just the way Mickey likes it. Except halfway through Ian's fingers start slipping on the sweat dripping down Mickey's skin and he starts to complain that his arms are cramping like a bitch, as if the piece of shit can't do a thousand push-ups in this kinda weather.

"Quit whining and just slow the fuck down, then," Mickey throws over his shoulder. He can practically feel Ian's smile burning into his back. Ian likes all that sappy slow shit, the deep thrusts and low moans and the way everything feels good for twice as long. He's got patience Mickey's sorely lacking.

Mickey pretends to hate it for all of two seconds until he feels the hand rubbing his shoulder and moving up to run through his hair, and fuck if, coupled with the dick in his ass, it doesn't feel pretty amazing.

Mickey comes with Ian's hand lazily jerking him off and a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach just before, like it's bottoming out and filling up with butterflies all at once.

Ian presses open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder when his own orgasm hits a few seconds later. The feeling gets so intense that Mickey has to wrap his hand around Ian's wrist, just to make sure he doesn't fucking fly away.

-

"You should come to the party."

Ian sounds way too fucking calm as he says it, staring at his hands as he buttons up his shirt.

Mickey snorts, lighting up a cigarette. "Fuck off, man."

"Okay, fine, don't come." Ian plucks the cigarette out of Mickey's fingers before he can even take a drag.

Mickey's about to tell Gallagher to stop being a little shit, but their eyes meet and his tongue suddenly gets heavy. For, like, a fraction of a second, Mickey thinks Ian might lean in and kiss him. Which is a stupid thought to make his palms start sweating because it's not like they never kiss. It happens. It's fine. But everything feels really loaded right now—the look in Ian's eyes, that ache in Mickey's stomach, the fucking invitation to a graduation party—and Mickey's not sure what to think.

Then Ian blurts out, "I don't wanna fuck other people," and Mickey stops thinking entirely.

He blinks. Scratches his lip. Feels his chest constrict in a decidedly "not fine" way.

"No, I—I mean—" Ian sighs and rubs his temple. "I mean I'm not fucking anyone else. And I don't want to."

Mickey's heart is beating against his rib cage and he knows what it means, he does, but his brain can't work through it right now, is too caught up in the fact that Ian’s only fucking him. Wants to only fuck him. He feels his face heat up and can't look at Ian anymore, except he can't look away either.

Ian sets in his chin like he always does when serious shit is about to go down. "Are you okay with that? With just fucking each other?" he asks.

And then Mickey can't meet his eye.

The thing is, as fucking pathetic as it sounds—and it's so fucking pathetic that Mickey hates himself for even thinking it—it's always kind of just been Ian. Sure there was juvie, and a few chicks that didn't mean shit really, but no one else that counted. Not the way fucking Ian did.

"Yeah," he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Wait, seriously?" Ian asks, like Mickey just told him he had three dicks or some shit. "Yeah?"

Mickey kicks his shin. "Did I fucking stutter?"

Ian laughs, this loud, happy laugh that makes Mickey's chest tighten, and then he's vaulting across the couch and kissing Mickey. It's sloppy and their teeth clang a lot because Ian's kind of an eager fuck right now and he won't slow down enough for them to find a rhythm. He brings his hand to the back of Mickey's head, fingers lacing through his hair, and pushes their mouths even closer together. Everything about the kiss hurts, like a punch to the face, or pressing too hard on a fresh bruise.

Mickey fucking loves it.

-

Ian can't convince him to go the party because Mickey still has his balls intact, but he does kiss him goodbye at the door like they're in some kind of chick flick.

"I'll see you later," Ian says, a stupid grin plastered on his face.

Mickey flips him off, but he can't stop smiling.


End file.
